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“Something is coming,” she says in a dark, warning tone. “Something is coming for us, and I’m not sure we can stop it from happening.”
CHAPTERTHREE
Bones and I ride around the Quarter, keeping our eye out for suspicious activity. Of course, it’s the Quarter. Everything is suspicious, but there’s no sign of Anderson’s old men. At least I’ll sleep soundly tonight.
Bones continues his drive, but I pull over when I feel my phone buzzing in my pocket. I signal for Bones to go on ahead, and I stop in front of a voodoo shop, a tourist trap if there ever was one. I answer my phone without looking.
“Mr. Pocus,” a slimy-sounding voice says from the other end. “I hope you’re well.”
“Who the hell is this?” I ask through gritted teeth. I’m already annoyed from my lack of sleep. I don’t have the patience for a telemarketer.
“My name is Jonathan Ward. I’m the attorney representing Anderson Grey’s estate.”
I glare at the store in front of me, my blood boiling at the mention of that bastard’s name. What the hell could his lawyer be calling me for? Surely, he couldn’t already be implicating me in Anderson’s murder.
“There’s a box of things from Mr. Grey’s old penthouse that he’s specifically instructed me to send you.”
Whatever the hell it is, I don’t want it. I tell the lawyer that he can shove it up his ass.
“Mr. Pocus, that’s all well and good, but my office legally can’t do anything with these artifacts if you don’t take them. Throw them out, give them to charity, but you have to take them.”
Of course. Smarmy son of a bitch. I don’t want anything that has ever been associated with Anderson, but it seems my hands are tied in this matter. Maybe the men and I will set up theseartifactsin the backyard and take shots at them. That would be good for the club’s morale.
“Fuck,” I whisper under my breath. “Fine, Mr. Ward,” I grumble into the phone. “I assume you already have my address. Send the things and leave me the fuck alone.”
I hang up my phone and slip it back into my pocket. This day has been enough as it is. It’s time for me to go back home to my girls and pray I can sleep tonight.
I feel her presence before she knocks on the door. She’s not surprised at all to see me a split second after she knocks. There she is, her sunglasses covering her eyes and a wide smile breaking out across her face.
“It’s good to see you, child,” she tells me, as if I’m the guest and she’s the one who’s welcoming me into her home. But that’s Mama. She belongs wherever she steps foot.
I usher her inside and ask if I can get her anything to drink, but she waves me off.
“This isn’t a social call, cheri mwen,” she says kindly, though there’s an edge to her voice. We walk back to the kitchen and she sits down at the counter, fixing me with a stare. “I’m not sure you are aware but you called out to me in your sleep, child. Tell me what’s wrong.”
I look at her in shock, because no, I hadn’t realized my spirit had called out to her. I’ve been trying to block out the dream, afraid of the repercussions of what I saw. Seer tried to assure me it was only a dream, but he isn’t like me. He doesn’t feel things in the spirit world as well as the natural.
“You’re shaking, child,” Mama says, concerned. She walks behind me and pulls things out of the cabinet, making herself at home.
“You don’t perceive it?” I ask her, shocked. “I feel like it’s eating me alive.”
She nods and sings an old Haitian lullaby, ignoring my words as she makes me an herbal blend. She motions for me to sit down, and I do, waiting patiently for her to say something, anything. This is the way Mama works. I love her to pieces, but she can be incredibly frustrating at times.
When the brew is finished, she pours it into a mug and lets it cool off before dipping her fingers in it and covering my head with the liquid.
“This is for protection,” she tells me, focusing on her task.
She dips her fingers in the brew again, running it over the palms of my hands.
“Something in the spirit world is calling out to you, cheri, and you have to be the one to respond.”
She makes me sit and removes my shoes, rubbing the mixture over the soles of my feet.
“It has not reached out to me, so I cannot perceive it. You have been chosen as the messenger, so you are burdened with the task of feeling its presence. You alone have the power to do what needs to be done.”
I sigh heavily, afraid she would say something like that. I don’t want to be burdened with this task. It makes me physically ill. I break out into a cold sweat just thinking about it, and my stomach churns.
I push Mama away and run to the bathroom, falling to the ground and puking in the toilet. She follows me slowly, watching over me.
